March of the Legion

by Marshall S. Thomas

  "Look, fellows—we've been around a long time." Biergart's gaze was flicking around the room, avoiding our eyes. "We know the way the world works. It's got us—all right. It wants something, it's got it. Whatever it wants—it'll get no trouble from us. Just tell us what it wants, it's done. It's working for Ginsa, isn't it? What does it want? Just tell us!" The sweat dribbled off his nose and trickled down his neck.

  I had one foot up on a chair. I just looked at him, silently. Dragon drew up another chair slowly, scraping the crude wooden legs noisily across the raw slab floor until the chair almost touched Biergart's knees. Then Dragon slowly settled into the seat, his gaze riveted on Biergart.

  A hot knife suddenly appeared in Eight's hand. Eight hit the control and it flickered blue-hot, a glowing lance.

  Biergart stared at it like a mouse before a snake. "There's no need for that, boys!" he finally squeaked, "No need at all! Please—put it away! We'll give it whatever it wants—we told it! What is it? Does Ginsa want us dead? It can't be that foolish—we'll pay it! We'll pay! There's no need for unpleasantness, boys—we can deal! We'll give it all we have, just don't kill us!"

  Dragon reached slowly up with his free hand and his fingers closed over one of Biergart's ears like a vice. He pulled Biergart's trembling head toward him, and the ear turned a bright red. The hot knife came up glowing, the reflections shimmering off Biergart's sweaty face.

  "Ear?" Dragon asked me. I nodded, without comment.

  "Boys! Boys!" Biergart was frantic, his eyes popping almost out of his head, "It's not necessary! We'll cooperate! Why? Why? Why do it? Please! Whatever it wants! It's got it!"

  I turned slowly to Dragon, and nodded slightly. He cut the hot knife. The blade faded in the dark, still white-hot. Eight maintained the death-grip on the man's ear. I turned back to Biergart. He was trembling. I did not like this, not at all, but we had a job to do and we had to start with Biergart.

  "Why?" I spoke at last. "Why is because we wish to show you we are serious. Why is because we are pressed for time—we have no time for nonsense."

  "Serious?" Biergart shot back. "Serious! Yes, serious, we know it's serious, boys; no need for ears to prove it. We accept it! It's serious! No need to show us! We have a wife and two children! We'll cooperate!"

  I nodded to Dragon again. He released the ear, and Biergart jerked back in his chair with a shudder, covered with sweat. I did not think we would have any trouble with him.

  "We wish to ask you something," I said quietly. I was using the Systie 'you', an impolite term which was reserved for inferiors or subordinates.

  "Yes, yes—whatever it wants, just ask!" Biergart seemed very anxious to assist us.

  "We want quick and accurate answers. Truthful answers."

  "Of course! It's got it!"

  "You were involved in an infolink venture not too long ago."

  "The infolink?" His eyes flashed from me to Dragon and back again. "The infolink! Yes, so we were! We want to know about the infolink?"

  "What happened?"

  Biergart licked his lips. He was obviously puzzled. "We thought everyone knew what happened. It was a shame. The deal fell through at the last mark. But it wasn't our fault! It was the financing—the Northcom Consortium went bust. They were under investigation by the System, and the cash had to go elsewhere. They were to have financed the Eli Group. Eli asked us to come up with two million. Two million! Can it imagine it? An infolink, billions of credits at stake! And they're quibbling over a few million! So the whole deal falls in—we didn't have two million. We tried to raise it, but it didn't work. Can it imagine that? We tell it, Cits, this world is full of people of limited vision. Billions, we could have had. Billions! Is it with Eli? What does it want? We did our best! We didn't know Eli had a problem with us!"

  "There was a contact from offworld—a Cit Ranwan Lima. It was your contact."

  "Ranwan Lima…" Biergart hesitated, his eyes darting around the room again. Eight triggered the hot knife.

  "It wasn't a question!" Biergart exclaimed quickly. "It was a statement! Ranwan! Yes, of course, we knew it! What does it want to know?"

  The hot knife faded again, a dull white glow. Biergart was in agony, straining at his bonds, weaving slightly in the chair.

  "Our employer," I said, "desires to locate Cit Ranwan Lima. Our employer is convinced that you know where it is. We hope for your sake this is so."

  "Is that what it wants?" Biergart stopped struggling. His body went slack and he breathed out heavily. Something close to a smile flickered on his lips. "It's no problem, boys. Yes, we know where it is. Cit Ranwan Lima is in the tombs."

  "The tombs? It's dead?"

  Now he smiled—it was strange, that giddy smile on his sweat-streaked face. "No, no, not the tomb—the Tombs! It's what we call the federal prison here—Tombara Reformary. And, yes, as far as we know, it's alive."

  "How did it get there?"

  "We put it there, boys. Nothing personal in it, of course—just business. We even tried to get Ranwan to come through with the two million. Of course, it refused—that was not part of our agreement. We understood. But the collapse of the infolink deal did us in as well, financially. We were in up to our neck. And we knew the standing reward for turning in an infolink bandit. It was twenty thousand more than zero, which was what we had out of the deal at that point. And after all, it was an offworlder—no one cared about the deal once it fell through. Ranwan had no protectors here. It was the logical thing to do—the feds are always happy if they can nab an offworlder. They hate to deal with the locals—it brings on too many problems."

  "So you turned it in."

  "We did, boys. It got thought reform and probation."

  "Probation! So it's free?"

  "No, no—it's in the Tombs, as I said."

  "Well, what about the probation?"

  "That comes after the thought reform."

  "How long does thought reform last?"

  "Until the authorities believe it's ready for the probation."

  "Well, how long is that—normally?"

  "Normally…it's never."

  "Never?"

  "Nobody is ever released from the Tombs, boys. Nobody."

  "What was the charge?"

  "Violation of System and Federal regs on offworld data transmission. It's a serious matter—it'll never see the light of day again, that's certain."

  "The System, you say. The Feds."

  "That's right."

  "Would the governor have been brought into it?"

  "It'd certainly have been informed of the arrest."

  "Who runs the prison?"

  "The Director of Reform—Japrad Marsh."

  "Does it take money?"

  "We all take money, boys."

  "Does it, specifically, take money?"

  "It's rotten to the core."

  "Could someone be bought out of prison?"

  "It's an intriguing concept. We don't think it's ever been tried. People with money usually don't go to jail in the first place. Normally, we just split up whatever little is left when the Feds grab someone. Does it owe a favor to this Ranwan Lima person?"

  "Not exactly. Our employer wishes to speak with it—that's all."

  "Its employer is going to a great deal of trouble."

  "Tell us—your prison system. Does it use genetic ID to classify the inmates?"

  "Genetic ID? Not on the run-of-the-mill inmate. That's expensive. Our prison system is very basic—the records are all manual. We know the feds can do it, but it's not routine."

  "Would it be done for an infolink violation?"

  "We don't know, boys. Probably not—unless there was some other reason, unless it was suspected of serious interstellar crimes, maybe. We'd help it if we could, boys, but we really don't know the answer to that one."

  I glanced over to Dragon. "Outside," I said. He nodded.

  "Take five, Biergart. We'll be back."

  "Anything else it wants, just ask. Anything, boys! It's got i
t."

  ###

  The view from the patio was magnificent. We looked out over a great, green wilderness. Misty grey clouds sliced through forested hills—the sky was grey and a wet, cool breeze washed gently over us.

  "It's a shame about the Originals," Priestess said. "Did you read the history of Katag? They were a wonderful people, living in perfect balance with the forces of nature. Then the Outworlders came. Now the Originals are all drug addicts—and criminals. A dying race. It's a shame." We were leaning against the stone wall that ran the length of the patio.

  "It's the System," Dragon said, "that does it. They encourage crime to ensure the population is at each other's throats. That way, nobody thinks."

  "How's the driver?" I asked Priestess.

  "He's secured," she responded. "What did you find out?"

  We told her. Then we discussed it, standing in the teeth of a rising breeze under that cool grey sky. It looked like it might rain. The air was too thin, I decided—not enough oxygen.

  "So they may not have done the genetic ID."

  "Or they may have—we don't know."

  "It's possible the governor doesn't know who he has."

  "It's also possible he does."

  "Maybe he doesn't care—money can buy forgiveness."

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "So we go to the prison."

  "March right in!"

  "All or nothing!"

  "Money talks!"

  "He might be just waiting for us."

  "If we offer enough, the word might never get back to him."

  "It's natural for the lowest-ranking person who has the power to release her to take the money and do it."

  "Auto-payment to be made upon the successful arrival of all four of us through Customs at any Systie world."

  "It's the usual arrangement, according to Tara."

  The wind was rising—it was getting cold. "All right, we do it," I said.

  "We've got to do Biergart and his driver first," Dragon said.

  "I've been thinking about that," I said.

  "There's nothing to think about," Dragon countered.

  "There's no need to kill them," I said. Dragon looked out at the view, silent.

  "We've got that displacement monitor," I insisted, "and we've got contac. We can leave the two of them together in the basement. If they shift position too much, it goes off. We explain it to them—they won't move!"

  Dragon said nothing. Neither did Priestess.

  "It'll work!" I said. "There's no need to kill them. He's just a nobody—he's scared stiff. He won't give us any trouble."

  "He'll turn us in first chance he gets," Dragon said.

  "He won't get a chance! He'll be secure in the basement, staring at the displacement monitor."

  "It won't work, Thinker," Dragon said flatly. "We don't know if we're under surveillance or not. They could be all over this place the moment we leave. We can't leave them here."

  I was starting to sweat, even in that chill breeze. "Look, he's just a sub. He's not important. He's got a family. And the driver is just a spectator. It's not his fault he works for Biergart. We can't just murder them!"

  Nobody said anything. It started to rain—a fine mist.

  "You want me to do it?" Dragon asked.

  "Priestess, what do you think?" I asked. She was my last hope. Surely Priestess would not countenance the cold, brutal murder of two innocents.

  Priestess turned her perfect face to mine. It was devoid of emotion. "Our first duty is to our mission, and to ourselves. Your proposal would put us all at risk. You're a soldier of the Legion, Thinker. And it's your op. We'll do as you say. I know you'll do your duty." And she turned away, facing the rain.

  I could hardly believe it.

  ###

  "Our wallet, boys. It's on the table." Biergart was sweating again. He knew something was up. Dragon and I paused before him. We had earlier dumped his effects on the table, but had not even looked at the wallet.

  "We don't want your wallet," I said.

  "Just open it, will it?" He was very subdued.

  I flipped it open. There was a holo of his family—Biergart, plump and content; a chubby, smiling wife with reddish hair. Two impish children, bright eyes and ruddy gold hair. I closed it quickly.

  "They'll miss us, boys. It's not going to kill us, is it?" Sweat, dripping off his nose.

  "Relax, Biergart. We're just going to change rooms." I stepped behind him and touched his bonds with my left hand. My right brought the vac gun up to the back of his head. I fired. The echo did not want to end—it seemed to go on forever, bouncing harshly off the walls. We had loaded the vac gun with cenite darts.

  Dragon did the driver. He did everything else—I was out of it. I had done my duty, and I never wanted to do it again. I decided that if we got out of this one alive, I was finished with Tara—we had paid our debt, already.

  Chapter 16:

  The Mask

  The Warden will see Cit now." The guard was a bodybuilder, dressed in a dark brown uniform. He had a vac gun at his waist. We were in a small reception room just outside the warden's office. Right in the heart of the beast. I was not at all happy with the sit, but we had no choice. The door hissed open. I was high on mags and totally unarmed. I knew there was a good chance we might never leave.

  Priestess and I followed the bodybuilder into the Warden's office. Dragon waited outside—there were several other heavies to keep him company. A man rose from behind an extra-large desk of wood and marble. There was something strange about him—a fleshmask, I suddenly realized. He was wearing a fleshmask. An attractive girl with straight dark hair stood by with a notecard and a lightpen. Several chairs faced the desk.

  "Welcome, Lady Arbell," the man said. "We are Cit Japrad Marsh, Director of Reform and Warden of Tombara Reformary. We are pleased to greet such a distinguished visitor, and we will do what we can to assist Cit. Our secretary will take notes of our conversation, just for our records. Please be seated."

  "Our thanks, Excellency," Priestess replied as we found our seats. She was as cold as ice. I was impressed, because my heart was thumping. "We appreciate Cit's taking the time to see us. Our secretary is also here for the record, but in view of the subject to be raised, we ask that formal notes not be taken. It is a delicate matter." She passed the warden her business card.

  The warden nodded to his secretary and she closed her notecard. "Very well. How can we assist Lady?"

  "We represent a multi-system investment conglomerate—Regulus Octo. We were recently cheated—rather badly—by a professional scam artist with some very good credentials and a fast escape route. This happens occasionally, even when one's security is excellent, and normally in such a situation, we are prepared to quietly accept our losses and learn from our mistakes. In this case, however, the crime was heavily publicized. It therefore became important that we track down the criminal, deal with it on our own, and ensure that its fate is also heavily publicized, to deter others who might have similar ideas."

  "A sound plan. Please go on."

  "We have tracked the criminal to this world."

  "We see."

  "It used the proceeds of the crime to attempt to organize a pirate infolink here."

  "An infolink."

  "The scheme was detected, and the criminal was arrested and imprisoned, here. The criminal's name is Ranwan Lima—a female."

  "Ranwan Lima. We see." The warden raised one hand to his mask. "Tell us…this arrest. It was never publicized. How did Lady learn of it?"

  "We purchased the information."

  "We understand. Riza—the trues. The L's." The secretary got up and pulled a file drawer off a shelf and placed it heavily on the Warden's desk. We watched her as she went through the file cards manually. File cards! What a break—the bureaucracy on this world was more primitive than we had dared imagine.

  "Lima, Ranwan," the secretary said, smiling. "Right here." She handed the card to the Warden.

  "Four Si
x Oh Oh Four Oh Four," he said aloud. "Get me the master." The secretary turned to another shelf. The warden smiled at Nine like a hungry bloodcat, revealing yellow teeth. "We've got it all right. We recall the case. Reform and probation. It's a serious matter. It has been tried and convicted in a court of law, and can expect to spend the rest of its life here, doing reform."

  "We have been authorized to expend five hundred thousand credits to recover this worthless criminal," Priestess said. "We can put that into its benevolent fund, pass it to any charity Excellency cares to name, or arrange to have it transferred into any bank account Cit may specify." Priestess sounded almost bored. I had not realized she was such a great actress.

  "The master, Excellency." The secretary handed the Warden another file card. It had a holo shot on it—was that the extent of their technology? The card appeared to have been handwritten.

  "Yes, this is it," the Warden said. There was something wrong with one of his eyes, I realized. One of them was focused on the card. The other stared glassily at the ceiling. "General Detention, Level Eight. It's a serious matter."

  "It's a nasty, worthless bitch," Priestess said calmly. "And we're willing to pay—we've told Cit how much—to get ahold of it. Put it on probation, in our custody. We'll guarantee it won't break any more laws—here or anywhere else."

  "What would Lady do with it?"

  "We would sedate it and take it with us—off-planet. We will, of course, require Excellency's assistance to guarantee it can pass through Katag's exit procedures without delay. The specified amount will be autocredited to Cit's account the instant the four of us pass through Customs on any other System world. Guaranteed by InterStar Credit."

  "A sound procedure."

  "Can Excellency assist us in this matter?"

  Assuming Ranwan Lima's true identity was not known, the Warden should be anxious to cooperate with us without alerting his superiors—otherwise he would have to share the loot. Five hundred thousand System credits was a King's ransom—Tara was obviously fond of her exec.